Such Mortal Drugs
by Marguerite1
Summary: When should a life be allowed to end, and who gets to make that decision?


SUCH MORTAL DRUGS  
  
Classification: General   
Summary: "It needs to be the last, and I mean the absolute last, resort." Talking   
heads, sad subject.  
  
WARNING: If you oppose legal right-to-die measures for the terminally ill, then  
please use the delete key.  
  
***   
Such Mortal Drugs   
***  
  
CJ comes to the conclusion that if the senior staff were animals, Josh would be  
a sheepdog. Two hours of grooming wouldn't make a difference - he'd still be  
rumpled and windblown and a million other things. He manages to be annoyingly  
endearing whether he's in a tuxedo or in the jeans and black sweater he's poured  
himself into at this ungodly hour of the morning.  
  
"When we get out of here," Josh says around a yawn as he helps himself to one of  
the danishes on Leo's conference table, "I am never, ever, ever getting out of  
bed at five in the morning on a Sunday again."  
  
"Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever really get out of here." CJ can control her  
voice, can portray exhaustion and lethargy, lulling Josh into relaxing enough so  
she can snatch his pastry away before he has a chance to take a bite.  
  
His sleep-heavy eyes open wider. "The hell?"  
  
"It was the last cheese one. You know I love the cheese ones." It smells  
heavenly, like real butter, confectioner's sugar, and cream cheese that didn't  
come in a grocery store brick.  
  
Josh's voice squeaks when he's indignant. "You could get to Senior Staff early!"  
  
"You could quit sneaking the good danishes out from under our noses, Josh!  
Honest to God, you're going to have a spare tire the size of Detroit."  
  
"As opposed to his ego, which is merely the size of several small Pacific  
Islands?" This insult is hurled by Toby, scarcely breaking his stride as he  
walks past CJ and takes the cheese danish out of her slim fingers.  
  
Bastard.  
  
She turns a steely glare on him. "Ha, ha, ha."  
  
"You want a piece of this?" Toby asks, his dark eyes twinkling as he waves his  
prize under CJ's nose. "You wanna piece o'dis?"  
  
"Oh, man, this is just too good," Josh chuckles, leaning against the door frame  
to watch two members of the President's inner circle fight over what is now a  
well-handled and somewhat limp piece of pastry.  
  
"C'mon, Toby, I went to a lot of trouble, you know, stealing it from Josh and  
all."  
  
"I'm going to make you beg for it, CJ," Toby murmurs just as Sam walks into the  
room.  
  
Everyone freezes. Sam's mouth hangs open, eyes saucer-wide behind his glasses.  
Toby stands with the danish dangling from his fingers, CJ is pouting at him, and  
Josh's face is scarlet as he struggles to restrain his laughter.  
  
"I gotta come to Senior Staff earlier," Sam mutters. He's cute early in the  
morning, with sleep clinging to the corners of his eyes and a couple of locks of  
black hair not wanting to go the same direction as the others. He's cute most of  
the time, but CJ's usually too busy and tired to notice.  
  
Everyone dissolves into helpless mirth. Toby breaks the cheese danish in half  
and, with a magnanimous flourish, gives CJ the part with the most filling. It's  
a little the worse for wear yet it still smells sweet, although with a hint of  
Toby-fragrance. Pencils and coffee.  
  
"I'm glad to see you're enjoying yourselves," Leo said as he strides in with  
Margaret right behind him. "It may be the last time for the foreseeable future."  
  
"Way to suck the joy out of my day," Josh comments under his breath.  
  
"I heard that," Leo snaps, and Josh lowers his head. "Anyway, we've got a thing  
and the President's asking for as many voices - hopefully with brains attached -  
on the matter as possible."  
  
"What is it?" Toby. Doom-laden.  
  
"It seems that the good people of The Organization For Life have started beating  
drums over Oregon's physician-assisted suicide statute. They're demanding action  
from the Federal Government to overturn the law."  
  
"On what grounds?" Sam asks, his pencil pointed over the paper.  
  
"That the distribution of the medications involved is in violation of FDA  
standards. But what they're really spoiling for is a position from the White  
House on the matter."  
  
Toby scratches his chin beneath the beard. CJ can hear Toby's thumbnail rasping  
on the soft, vulnerable flesh beneath. "What is the President's position?"  
  
"He's...conflicted," Leo says, looking Toby straight in the eye as if daring him  
to make a comment.  
  
"And he's looking to us to help untangle that conflict?" CJ's eyes widen. "Has  
he ever known us to agree on anything other than 'our salaries suck?'"  
  
As undisturbed as the perfectly-pressed folds of his shirt, Leo continues. "So  
during the day you'll talk amongst yourselves and the President will want to see  
you at some point."  
  
"When?" Josh inhales the word as he rubs the small of his back with one hand.  
Sam glances at him, brow furrowed.  
  
"When he gets back. From church." Leo takes his seat behind the desk, looking up  
at the staff from over his glasses. "Guys, let's get this done sooner rather  
than later."  
  
"Thank you, Leo," Sam says. He gives Josh a gentle prod to get him moving, CJ  
and Toby following behind. "Do we have memos, briefing books, anything on this?"  
  
"Probably, but that's not the point," CJ says, crisp and efficient as she leads  
the group down the hall. "He wants to know what we think, as people, not what  
information we can spout off after reading memos. There won't be a quiz."  
  
"That's what you think," Josh says glumly.  
  
"Look, let's give it some thought and meet in my office in, say, twenty  
minutes?"  
  
"Done," Sam declares, breaking away from the group and heading for the stairs.  
  
Josh makes a quiet departure, not saying anything, simply turning away and  
walking toward his office. CJ wonders if she should call Donna and get her in  
today, then remembers that Josh gave Donna three days off so she could see her  
sister's new baby.  
  
"Where's Donna?" Toby Ziegler, mind-reader, his card should say.  
  
"Madison. Her sister had a baby."  
  
Toby scrunches up his face. "Didn't her sister have a baby already?"  
  
"Yes, Toby - sometimes families want more than one. It's been known to happen.  
That would explain you being here, after all."  
  
"Ah," is all Toby says, and CJ knows he's back to thinking about whatever he was  
thinking about when Josh walked away from them. He follows her into her office  
and sits down on the sofa. He leans forward with his hands clasped, looking at  
his thumbs.  
  
"So we're supposed to give a rational opinion to the President later today about  
suicide." The words are dry in CJ's throat, sharp.  
  
"Well, I think we universally agree that suicide is generally not the best thing  
in the world. We're talking about people being given a choice when to end a life  
that's become nothing more than pointless suffering."  
  
Toby's dressed all in black today, sober polo shirt and slacks, black socks,  
black loafers, as if he were on the way to a coffeehouse in the sixties. CJ  
looks down at her feet. She's wearing cream-colored sandals and her toenails are  
an intense geranium red, the brightest color in the room.  
  
"But is it really something we can get behind, asking a physician to take a  
life?"  
  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Toby puts his hand out in the universal 'stop' gesture.  
"That sounds like Mary Marsh on abortion."  
  
"This isn't the same thing."  
  
"Mary would say it was."  
  
"Well, she's wrong, and she can just stay over...there...someplace, out of this  
discussion, okay?"  
  
Those intense eyes scan her, reading her like a headline. "Okay, then. And I do  
see your point about making this yet another requirement heaped on doctors by  
the government. But what about a doctor who truly understands his patient's--"  
  
"Or her patient's," CJ puts in, pro forma but also because she loves watching  
Toby squirm as he tries to use gender-neutral language.  
  
"His-slash-her patient's suffering," Toby growls, rolling his eyes, "and has  
gone through his-slash-her entire arsenal of traditional medicines and  
non-traditional ones as well, and now wants to let the patient be freed of the  
horror his...or her...life has become."  
  
"Isn't that in violation of the Hippocratic oath - 'above all, do no damage?'"  
  
"CJ, listen." Toby gets up and paces the room. Even with his back turned to her,  
she knows exactly what his face looks like. "My brother David's wife, Joyce,  
developed a brain tumor. Cancer spread to every inch of her body, spread like  
wildfire. She couldn't breathe without a machine. If David touched her she'd  
scream in pain. She was a mass of tumors but every day was still precious to her  
because she couldn't bear the thought of not being a part of the world anymore.  
She wasn't ready to die. She had David. She had three kids, CJ. Three kids."  
  
CJ lowers her head. She knows about this - she still has his letters in a  
shoebox. She never loved him more than when he poured his heart out to her about  
those months. "That's not really making your argument, Toby."  
  
"But there came a time when she knew that it was over, that she really didn't  
have any reason to fight anymore, and she begged us to let it end. To make it  
end, if we had to. We talked about it in the abstract, David and I, and then  
later our sisters joined in and the conversations became less abstract. We  
argued about everything from 'pikuach nefesh' to how much jail time we were  
willing to serve. One night we were whispering about it in the hospital because  
we thought she was sleeping."  
  
CJ can sense where this is headed. She debates whether to cross the room, cross  
the line, and touch him while he finishes, but he turns to face her and the  
look on his face tells her to stand still.  
  
"She heard us. She said she could never, never ask us to do this, so she was  
going to have to do it herself. She stopped eating, refused all treatment, and  
it took...days." His eyes are wild, as if he is reliving the grief again in the  
depths of his heart. "It took days," he repeats. "The doctor apologized to us  
the entire time. He said if they'd only let him, he could put extra morphine  
into her IV line and she'd be able to go peacefully and on her own terms rather  
than face the endless pain. It was the pain that killed her, really, as much as  
the cancer. And it was awful, CJ. It's not what we wanted for her, and in the  
end it wasn't what she wanted for herself, either."  
  
It's going to be awful for her father, as well. His mind will contract and  
contract, squeezing out his education and his memory before finally taking  
everything that made him Jack Cregg and reducing it to a vacuum. She knows it  
will be awful, and she knows that Toby knows, and she wishes he would hold her  
so that she could cry.  
  
But they have this thing they have to do.  
  
She shifts and sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. "What would you want for  
yourself, Toby, if something like that were to happen to you? Would you want to  
go quickly?"  
  
"No, I think I would prefer to linger and be a burden to my loved ones." He  
gives her that sardonic grin, the one that makes her want to kiss it right off  
his lips.  
  
"As if you'd have any loved ones," CJ says, and instantly regrets it because  
she's wounded him, gone beyond banter into something they both have reason to  
fear. "Besides me," she whispers, wanting to make it better.  
  
Toby smiles and this time it's for real. "So if something happened to me and I  
was suffering, would you let me sign the papers?"  
  
She tries not to think of her father. "I don't think I could stop you, Toby."  
  
Nodding, Toby comes a little nearer, closing both the physical and metaphorical  
distance between them. "What if I couldn't sign? What if there was no brain  
function but my body was alive, or if I could think but couldn't move?"  
  
Her whole body quakes. Uncontrollable. She's going to cry, damn it. "Toby..."  
  
Another step forward, and another, and he's close enough for her to feel the  
warmth from his body but it doesn't quell the tremors. "CJ, it's not outside the  
realm of possibility that you'll be the only person around when I start to  
shuffle off the mortal coil. And I have to know - would you try to keep me here  
even though I wanted to go?"  
  
He dissolves in her tear-blurred vision: one Toby, ten Tobies, watercolor Tobies  
in flesh and black, and she takes in a gasping, painful breath as she nods her  
head. "I don't think I could...let you go. I know it's selfish..."  
  
She doesn't know how her cheek came to rest on Toby's shirt, but there it is,  
and his hand is in her hair. She looks up at him, glad that she can't quite see  
the details of his expression. "Would you, if it were me?"  
  
His voice is a low rumble and he pauses between words. "It would be hard. But  
I'd do it. For you. I'd let you go. I'd be right there with you. I wouldn't make  
you do it alone."  
  
The warm safety of his embrace is all that holds her together. She can't look at  
him anymore, can't say much, but she mumbles something into his shirt that's  
just for now. Just for this moment.  
  
"Toby?" His arms tighten around her in a silent response. "Don't let go."  
  
***  
  
Sam knows where he can find Ainsley, knows that she'll give him the argument  
that will help him formulate an opinion on a subject he really hasn't thought  
about before now. He also knows that she'll be in her office - a newer, less  
gloomy space than the original - because she always comes in early on Sundays.  
  
"Hey, Sam," Ainsley drawls when Sam knocks on the door and leans in, smiling at  
her. "What on earth are you doing here at six on a Sunday?"  
  
"I was summoned. You?"  
  
He enjoys the way her skin glows when she blushes. "I...like it here."  
  
"Like it because you like it, or like it because it's easier to plot the  
overthrow of the government from inside the building?" Sam asks as he lowers  
himself into a chair. His posture has never been very good around Ainsley.  
  
"Like it because...this is going to sound utterly vapid."  
  
He smiles. "Only you could put yourself down and use the phrase 'utterly vapid'  
at the same time."  
  
"I like it because it's the White House. I mean, I get up in the morning and I  
get to go to the White House, and I never got over that feeling." She tilts her  
head, her long, smooth hair flowing over one shoulder as she regards Sam with  
amusement in her eyes before turning to whatever work she was doing. "You're not  
going to laugh at me?"  
  
"Hardly." He slouches even further in the overstuffed chair, his lean body  
twisting into a position only he could find comfortable. "I admire you for still  
feeling that way. For the rest of us...it's kind of worn off."  
  
"That's because you're all idealist liberals who can't bear to have a dream  
shattered here and there," she replies mildly, not looking up from her laptop.  
It's only the ensuing silence that seems to interest her, drawing her gaze from  
the screen to Sam's face. "Insert witty repartee here, Sam."  
  
"Yeah. Sorry." He takes his glasses off, folds them up, and fishes for a shirt  
pocket that would be there if he were dressed for business, but there's no home  
for glasses in his navy-blue sweater. Scowling, he reaches over and rests them  
on Ainsley's desk. It's like planting a flag in foreign soil.  
  
Ainsley doesn't look up as she types something else. "Not that I don't enjoy the  
pleasure of your company, particularly when you're at a loss for words, but is  
there some reason--"  
  
"Oregon's assisted-suicide statute is being attacked by the O.F.L."  
  
"Because dispensing drugs in a manner inconsistent with their beneficial values  
is a violation of the F.D.A. rules?" Ainsley asks, folding up the laptop with a  
brisk snap.  
  
He's surprised that she's on top of this, then not surprised, because after all,  
her party would be salivating for a Presidential response they could bat around.  
"Exactly. And Leo says the President wants to take our temperature on this, so I  
came to you."  
  
"To me."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"For an opinion."  
  
He sees it coming, as if they're playing tennis and he's feeding her a lob.  
"Yes."  
  
"For my decidedly Republican opinion."  
  
Here it comes. "Yes."  
  
"Then I think the members of O.F.L. are out of their tiny little minds and they  
need to let physicians dispense drugs for whatever purposes they think are  
legitimate."  
  
Sam spends a few seconds trying to merge the words and Ainsley's voice together,  
gives up, and shakes his head. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Sam, that's my internal argument. I don't think there's a more fundamental  
right than the right to decide when your own life isn't worth living anymore.  
However--"  
  
"Aha!"  
  
She sighs and shakes her head. "However, I'm worried about the potential for  
abuse."  
  
"As in, doctors killing off patients who don't pay their bills on time?"  
  
"God, Sam, no, that's not what I mean at all!" Her voice rises, pitch and  
volume, even the speed, all increasing. "Here's a scenario for you. Someone's  
father is dying of...let's say cancer, since that's pretty common. It's slow and  
it's painful. Death is inevitable. But it's going to take years, most of which  
will be spent in the hospital."  
  
Sam shudders, thinking of his parents and their endless cigarettes. He pictures  
them hooked up to respirators and tubes, pictures himself at their bedsides, all  
as if it were happening right now. His eyes sting, his throat aches, and he has  
trouble listening as Ainsley continues.  
  
"So this family that used to be affluent is now hemorrhaging money. Thousands of  
dollars a week. And then one day the mother says to the father that their  
daughter's wedding has to be called off because they can't afford it. Two months  
later, neither of the children can go to college. And all the while the father's  
only getting worse, slowly, inexorably. Then, finally, the mother says: 'My  
darling husband, there's an honorable way out,' and she brings it up every day  
until the father finally consents."  
  
"That sounds," Sam says while trying to even out his breathing, "more like a  
scenario to prove that we have to overhaul the nation's health care system so  
that families don't have to make that kind of choice."  
  
"I don't disagree with you," Ainsley replies, and her voice is so quiet and deep  
that Sam wonders what personal connection she may have to the argument. "But I  
think the potential for abuse is very, very high, and that's something you need  
to take into consideration. I don't think we need to make patricide, or any  
other family permutation, into something that's sanctioned by the federal  
government."  
  
He doesn't argue, just sits and lets his eyes drift down the silk waves of her  
hair, drowning in them for a few moments while he ponders. "I think that's a  
valid concern."  
  
Ainsley threw her hands in the air in a mock gesture of amazement. "Well, call  
CJ and get the press corps down here, because this is a first." They share a  
laugh, something they don't get to do much anymore. "I'm interested in hearing  
your opinion, Sam."  
  
"This is the weird thing," he begins, and he realizes that he's clutching the  
arms of the chair rather tightly. "I don't really have an opinion. I mean, I  
just haven't given the matter much thought." And he hasn't. The Seaborns are  
famously - almost insolently - healthy, his grandparents still remarkably agile,  
his parents strong enough to maintain an extraordinary level of bitterness  
toward one another. "I suppose that on the surface, I think that people should  
be allowed to determine what happens to their bodies. But I also wonder if it's  
right to go to another person and say, 'Hey, look, you've got all this medical  
expertise - so what would kill me, and would you mind doing the job yourself?'  
That's a terrible thing to ask."  
  
"I see both your points." Ainsley stands up and stretches, showing a bit of pale  
skin at her waist where the Smith sweatshirt and the black jeans suddenly fail  
to meet. "And I think I need refueling for the debate. Want to go to the Mess?"  
  
"There's no one there," Sam says, blinking at her, wondering how that much food  
gets processed in her little body, how fast and hot her metabolism must run.  
  
"I have something you don't have," Ainsley declares in a soprano sing-song.  
  
"Yes, I'd imagine there are several...things..."  
  
She leans over and cuffs him, hard, on the upper arm, ignoring his sharp-voiced  
protest. "Sam, I have a key."  
  
"Key."  
  
"To the kitchen. Anything we want, it's ours."  
  
"How did you get that?"  
  
"They got tired of my continual complaining and said that if I wanted Fresca, or  
grits, or banana and peanut butter sandwiches, I could very well come down and  
take care of them myself."  
  
He can imagine her batting her eyelashes and getting her way - or standing up to  
the kitchen staff and making a list of demands. Or some combination. But his  
stomach rumbles, on cue, and he smiles up at her. "Banana and peanut butter  
sandwiches?"  
  
"Nectar of the gods. C'mon." She gives him her hand, warm and surprisingly  
strong, and pulls him up.  
  
***  
  
Josh leans against Carol's desk, staring at the closed door to CJ's office. He  
can hear the low buzz of conversation in three-part harmony: Toby's baritone,  
Sam's tenor, CJ's alto. He's supposed to be at this meeting. He can't be at this  
meeting.  
  
His slim fingers tap at a spot on his sternum, then rub downward and back up  
again. Even now, two years later, the almost-sensation still intrigues him.  
Abbey had said that he will probably never have much feeling there. A numb-line.  
But what's beneath that line was never numb and today is aching in a way he  
thought he'd forgotten.  
  
***  
  
Shallow breaths, sending fiery tendrils through his body. Pain, oh, God, the  
pain, and the confusion, and the shadowy figures wandering in and out, doing  
things to him. Nameless, faceless "theys," forcing him up from the cotton-wool  
sleep he craves. Poke, prod, examine, measure. Yank tubes out of holes and punch  
him full of new ones.  
  
Donna's voice. "Please, can't you do something?"  
  
Mom, crying. One of the theys ushers her out of the room, and then it's just  
Donna. Not-Donna, because the voice is wrong. And the words are wrong. Pleading.  
Begging.  
  
One of the theys: "It's not uncommon for trauma victims to imagine that they're  
in more pain than they're really in."  
  
More pain, indeed, and more indignity as fluid goes out of a tube between his  
legs. Even that is done by external means. Damn.  
  
"Look, I'll sign anything, I'll do anything!" Can't be Donna, who would have  
said "Imagine this!" and kicked the they in the groin.  
  
What's left of his heart seizes up, making the monitors bleat faster and drown  
out the they's next words. Something on his chest - cold metal, not helping -  
and the pain's still there but he can't feel Donna anymore.  
  
He waits to float away. Waits to look down on his shell from a curiously  
detached "above." Surely this is the end. Surely. Please.  
  
Warm, dry hand on his forehead. Gravelly voice. Exhausted voice. Toby.  
  
"I don't give a damn that it's three in the morning - get the doctor on the  
phone NOW." Then softer, with breath brushing his cheek. "Hold on, Josh. You're  
going to be okay."  
  
Liar. Toby. Liar. Gonna die. Has to open his eyes, but the light's hot like lead  
in the chest. Has to reach...tubes...wires...find Toby's wrist and pull.  
  
"It's over." His voice creaks like two strips of dried leather rubbing against  
one another.  
  
"What?" Shocked. Beyond shocked.  
  
"Toby." Tongue against lips cracked and raw from fourteen hours of intubation.  
Hiss. New pain, sharp. Blink sweat out of eyes. Toby's face is white and his  
eyes are black and there's no other color in this world that's ending. Please.  
It has to be ending. "Make it stop."  
  
Toby grips his arm. Hurts. Good hurt. "There's a doctor calling in new pain  
meds, Josh, it'll be just a minute more. Hang on. It's going to be okay."  
  
"Let me die."  
  
"What did he say?" Donna, choking back sobs.  
  
Don't cry, Donna. It's almost over.  
  
"He's delirious," Toby says too quickly for Donna to believe, and she's crying  
again.  
  
"Not," Josh chokes out. "I know." Coughing sends rockets off in his chest. "Let  
me die."  
  
There's new light. A halo around Toby, or misery, or something. A they comes in  
and croons apologetically at Josh as she injects something into his IV bag. It's  
something warm, soothing, letting waves of comfort wash him out to sea.  
  
***  
  
The first thing Toby sees as he leaves CJ's office is Josh, who never made it  
inside for the meeting. Josh blinks, startled, looking as if he's just awakened  
from a nightmare. Toby's pretty sure he knows exactly which nightmare would be  
conjured up today. Sam holds the door for CJ and the four of them start walking  
together.  
  
CJ cocks her head at Josh. "You didn't pick up when I called."  
  
Josh's voice is rusty. "I forgot to get off of voice mail."  
  
Toby slows his steps so that CJ and Sam move ahead. Josh won't look at him. "I  
can have someone page you, get you out of there," Toby says under his breath.  
  
"Nah. I'm good."  
  
"Josh," he says, sighing because he'd rather scream. "Look, tell him, or don't  
tell him, but this is not exactly a stupid man you're going to be talking to."  
  
They pause, waiting for Sam and CJ to round the corner. There's no one in the  
bullpen but they keep their voices low anyway. "I'm not going to tell him. Look,  
it's fine. It's not a problem."  
  
"You've locked yourself up in your office the whole damn day. You didn't answer  
the phone."  
  
"I didn't know it was set to voice mail!" Josh's voice is too high.  
  
Unconvinced, Toby shakes his head. "It's okay to take a few seconds before the  
meeting to pull him aside. All you have to say is, 'Mr. President, this is a  
little too personal for me to give an unbiased opinion,' and you're done."  
  
"Yeah, right." Josh runs his hands through his hair until he looks like a  
grouchy, sarcastic Einstein. "That's exactly what I should do. Thanks for the  
advice."  
  
"I know it's hard for you to talk about what happened that night." He takes a  
beat, breathes for a few seconds. "It's hard for me. I mean, we've never even  
talked about it between ourselves."  
  
They hadn't, but for weeks afterwards Toby had scoured the Constitution for ways  
of getting back at the bastards who had done this, who had put Josh in a place  
where all he wanted was to die. Toby had gone to sleep with Josh's words in his  
ears and had woken to the sound of his own harsh breathing because his dreams  
were full of Rosslyn, gunshots, and heart monitors. And Josh's rasping voice.  
  
Let me die.  
  
Let me die.  
  
Josh pulls away, but not fast enough to keep Toby from seeing the humiliation in  
Josh's eyes at the recollection of that horrible conversation. His impudent  
swagger is gone and he looks older than Leo. He doesn't look at Toby even though  
they travel side by side.  
  
***  
  
Half an hour later, Josh is sitting on one of the little chairs in the Oval  
Office. His body is drawn like a fist against the uncontrollable pounding of his  
heart. CJ and Leo sit in the loveseat next to him with Toby and Sam opposite  
them. The President is in the other chair, so when Josh looks up he sees the  
intelligent countenance of Josiah Bartlet and when he looks down he sees the  
Presidential seal. Devil and deep blue sea.  
  
"Josh?" Leo prompts, and Josh turns his face toward him.  
  
"I don't really have anything to add," he whispers, remembering a time when he  
had shouted his mangled thoughts to the heavens in this very room. "I'm sorry,  
I've given it a lot of time, but..." He cuts himself off, closing his eyes as he  
tries to remember how to breathe.  
  
"Josh, if you have a difference of opinion from the other members of the staff,  
then we'd really like to hear it," Bartlet coaxes. "That's why I bring in the  
smart ones, so I can get as great a variety as possible. It doesn't matter if  
they don't line up with what you've heard so far."  
  
Josh, who hasn't heard anything so far, casts a sidelong glance at Toby. Get me  
out of this. Stall. Something.  
  
"While he's thinking, sir," Toby says, taking up the slack without missing a  
beat, "I'd like to revisit the problems we're likely to have with the Catholic  
Church. Their stance against euthanasia, even in the most horrific  
circumstances, is plain and irrevocable. You're one of the most visible members  
of the Church, Mr. President - don't you think we need to have answers for them  
about why you oppose the taking of unborn life but support the loss of...born  
life?"  
  
Bartlet lets out a sigh. "I've spent a lot of time in contemplation - I've  
called priests and bishops and cardinals, and we've hashed it out ad nauseam. I  
disagree with the Church on a number of issues, and this happens to be one of  
them."  
  
"I'm a long way from catechism class, Mr. President," CJ says, leaning back and  
crossing her legs, "but I'm pretty sure it's possible that there might be some  
interesting developments for you in the Hereafter because of this."  
  
"I'm sure there will be," Bartlet says, matter-of-fact, a touch of humor in his  
voice despite the subject. "So be it. If the Church's hierarchy calls me on  
this, then I'll say that it's a matter of being able to decide for oneself  
rather than have the decision made externally without consulting the person -  
born or unborn."  
  
Josh feels CJ stiffen and Toby gives her a slight shake of the head,  
telegraphing that now is not the time to start this argument. Besides, the  
President has been only momentarily distracted and is returning to his original  
subject.  
  
"Josh, we still haven't heard from you," he says, leaning toward Josh's chair.  
  
"Sir, I..." Josh rubs his eyes with his knuckles, then flings his hands outward.  
They tremble so he folds them in his lap. He looks down and away. Breathes.  
Whispers. "I'm not your guy."  
  
There's a beat while Bartlet looks at Toby, then his face registers  
comprehension and sorrow in equal parts. He nods, silent and composed, and leans  
away from Josh to offer him what privacy he can.  
  
Sam, who bears the curse of understanding what Leo and CJ do not, presses his  
lips together and looks up at the ceiling. His right hand moves in the air as if  
he's writing with an invisible pen. "So we need safeguards in place," he says,  
slowly at first, then picking up speed. "We need to find a way to ensure that  
only patients who are terminally ill or have no hope of regaining any quality of  
life can use the system. And we need to be careful that the family can't  
override the patient's wishes one way or the other."  
  
"Something along those lines," Josh says, his voice strengthening. He looks at  
Sam and sees something that reminds him of their reckless walk through a  
Manhattan thunderstorm, something he hasn't seen since Sam missed all the  
signals that wretched Christmas. "I can't figure out what kind of wording we  
could possibly use. But it needs to be the last, and I mean the absolute last,  
resort. Something that even the most religious people would recognize as being a  
sign that a life has become unbearable, even if they can't agree with the act  
itself."  
  
"Okay, that's something I can agree with," the President says. "This whole thing  
boils down to recognizing when a life should be allowed to end with dignity and  
grace."  
  
Josh nods. "Something for when the body is failing completely and there's no  
cure, no hope...for..." He glances at Toby, whose face is pale and taut, then at  
the President. Their eyes meet and the three men nod almost imperceptibly at one  
another. They know it's not abstract.  
  
They know.  
  
***  
  
Abbey runs her fingers through the graying hair on her husband's chest. She  
knows his body as well as her own - better, in some ways. She knows the rhythms  
of him, the temperatures and the planes and valleys, The Topography of the  
President. It makes her smile and plant kisses along his collarbone.  
  
"What's that for?" he inquires, peering at her through his reading glasses.  
  
"Oh, this and that." She settles down again, listening to his heartbeat and  
wondering why she expects his heart to be grander than any other man's. "What  
was the staff thing about this morning? I missed you at church."  
  
He takes off his glasses and puts them aside along with the briefing memo he had  
been reading. "I was sitting right next to you at church."  
  
"Your body was, but your mind was somewhere else entirely."  
  
He deflates a little, sinks back into the pillows. "Yes. It was."  
  
"Want to share?" She tries to keep it light, but she knows that whatever had  
Charlie on the phone at five in the morning probably was anything but light.  
  
"The O.F.L.'s coming for the physician-assisted suicide statute in Oregon. I  
needed voices, Abbey."  
  
Reflex. She stiffens, and his arms go around her. "I realize that I'm not  
currently a physician, but I'd think that you'd want to hear my opinion on the  
subject."  
  
His sigh smells like toothpaste and the filling he got last week. "I know your  
opinion on the subject. We've talked about it more than once in the past eight  
years."  
  
They have decided which devastating effects of M.S. will be bearable and which  
will not, and for what duration they will be endured. They have decided to let  
him say goodbye to the children and grandchildren without telling them anything  
of their plans. They have decided to do it by themselves, with her holding his  
hand as he gets his first taste of eternity with a priest's benediction still  
drying on his forehead.  
  
She will not let herself cry tonight, will not let the mental image of herself  
administering the final injection take over her brain and her heart all at the  
same moment. Instead she snuggles into the cozy, familiar strength of Jed's  
arms. "I'll have to get my license back first," she warns him, meaning it as a  
joke.  
  
"I have friends in high places," he answers as he nuzzles the sensitive spot at  
her temple. "And if that doesn't work, then my enemies in high places will be  
only too glad to give you the means to put an end to me."  
  
It's a squeezing, heavy pain in her heart. She lifts her head and presses hard  
on his chest. "Dammit, Jed, it's not going to be like that!" Her thick hair  
falls into her face, a merciful velvet veil. She shudders when Jed pushes it  
aside, tender fingers tucking it behind her ears.  
  
"I know. I know."  
  
How can he know, how can he fathom what this act will do to her? It's a  
dreadful, unimaginable burden for a physician to take a life, no matter how much  
that life should end, and Abbey's burden is doubled because she adores him and  
God and her children in equal measure. How can he know that she dreads the  
syringe that will send him into peaceful slumber more than the hell she is  
certain will devour her when her own time comes? How can he know the fleeting  
but seductive temptation to produce a second dose to stop her own aching heart?  
  
Jed's eyes are soft tonight, cloudy blue around shining black pupils, full of  
love, full of faith. She lets herself drift in them. She needs to feel alive,  
and so does he, and for those blissful minutes there's no clock. No disease. No  
clear liquid to perform an unclear task. And for now his heart still beats -  
brave, strong, and grand - against her cheek.  
  
***   
END   
***   
With thanks to Erika, Maggie, Renee F., A.J., and the entire cast  
and crew of The West Thing for their support and cattle prods.  
  
Feedback is welcome at marguerite@swbell.net .  
Back to West Wing .  
  
  
  
  



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